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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23319406">Thistle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordgirl/pseuds/swordgirl'>swordgirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Feral Fics [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Knightfall (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftercare, F/M, Flogging, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Hatred</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:42:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,871</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23319406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordgirl/pseuds/swordgirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the Feral needs some Softe in his life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Pierre (Knightfall)/Original Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Feral Fics [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676995</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Thistle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Look, I'm stuck at home and I can't dom anybody, so I'm going to take that out on fictional characters.</p><p>Grammar and stylistic error complaints are always welcome. Content complaints will get you mocked relentlessly.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So it shall be. 20 lashes, or until the accused confesses,” the historic decree settles like a block of ice in your stomach. You twist the flogger nervously in your hand, as you approach the bound Templar. No matter how many times you do this, it never fails to surprise you exactly how coarse the fibers are.</p><p>His blue eyes, sharp pinpricks in the dimming light, bore at you more deeply than any needle or knife. He knows why you volunteered for this, and you’re not sure whether he will confess to your crimes to buy himself a little leniency. You raise the flogger, but he doesn’t break eye contact until it actually connects with the soft skin of his belly with a sharp <em>crack!</em></p><p>A red mark is left in the flogger’s wake, but not bleeding, not yet. Nor does he make a sound besides the rustle of his clothing as he hunches over. He opens his eyes, which don’t seem damp, so you raise your arm again for another. You don’t quite manage to hit in the same spot, but it’s enough to draw a grunt from Pierre. The sound makes your pulse rush to your ears, and when you bring your arm down a third time, it’s more forceful and less accurate. A thin red line appears in the middle of a raised mark a full inch over the first two.</p><p>The handle is starting to warm your palm, but you know it’s nothing like the absolute fire that the knots draw across Pierre’s stomach. He manages to muffle his shout into a hiss, but it’s enough to make an entirely different kind of burn in your own stomach. Pierre is still looking at you in between strikes. You’re going to have to rectify that.</p><p>The fifth strike provokes no sound, to your disappointment, but the sixth draws out an actual shout. Pierre bites his lip to muffle the next shout, and the next. You’ve scored another bloody line across his stomach, and you plan for your ninth strike to cross over all three of them.</p><p>It nearly does, and this time Pierre doesn’t manage to lift his head quite as quickly to look back up at you. You keep your smile to yourself, because you don’t want the fun to end just yet. You gear up for the tenth strike.</p><p>
  <em>Crack!</em>
</p><p>There, all three lines, joined by a fourth. Something sparkles down Pierre’s cheek, and you wonder what it would taste like.</p><p>“Are you ready to confess?” you ask. It’s only fair. The skin on your palm is red, and you want to see more of it.</p><p>“No,” Pierre manages to lift his head. The sparkle’s gone, so you lift the flogger in an attempt to call it back. He keens, the sound hanging in the air almost visibly, like the drops of blood the flogger drew out of his stomach. But he’s still looking at you, so you lift the flogger yet again.</p><p>You grab the flogger and aim for one of the red, sluggishly-bleeding lines, it doesn’t matter which. You want to cut a groove deep enough to scar, to remind him of this day and the one who delivered it. He screams when you hit your mark, once, twice, three times. His shoulders shake with suppressed sobs, and his legs have started to slide out from underneath him. The sight of this makes you realize how close your own legs are to doing the same.</p><p>One more strike, and he hangs his hair over his eyes. So disappointing, you need to see them, see their sparkle, so you strike again. His entire body is shaking now, so you miss and hit a yet-unmarked patch of skin. He relaxes a little and draws in a full breath as he readjusts his stance. This won’t do. You make sure the next strike hits squarely over a red line, undoing all his work and drawing out a louder, higher scream. Much better.</p><p>He winces when each gulping breath moves his stomach in and out. You wince as well when you raise the flogger again, as the handle rubs against your reddened palm. He notices, of course he does, nothing gets past him. There’s something satisfied in his gaze, and this time he doesn’t look away when you break another line, even as he groans in what must be considerable agony.</p><p>You want him to blink even more than you want to see those eyes fill with tears. You ignore the abrasion in your palm and the soreness in your shoulder as you swing the flogger down with renewed force. He lets out another scream, and continues whimpering when your arm drops. You roll your shoulders to soothe the ache while holding his gaze. His hands are tied behind him. He can’t move to adjust his position no matter how badly it hurts.</p><p>You wait until the whimpers and trembles die down before you strike again, leading to another stream of broken sounds. He’s nearly bent double, and something sparkles in the air before darkening a small spot on the ground. You wait, but even after he’s silent and still, he doesn’t rise. “Do you wish to confess?”</p><p>That does the trick. He stands up with several harsh breaths, and he’s glaring at you again. Not for long, the next strike has him bent over again. You take a step forward before you realize, and scramble back. He chuckles, winces when that jostles his stomach, and slowly raises himself back up. When the final strike hits, it’s you who can’t look him in the eye, preferring to see the final red line scored into his stomach.</p><p>He winces after you untie his stiff and cramping limbs. Your rub the blood back into them and he nuzzles into your cheek under the guise of letting his exhausted head drop against your shoulder. He sighs and barely manages to open his eyes. Okay, maybe not so much pretending.</p><p>“Was that good for you?” you croon. “Do you feel you’ve been punished enough?” He shakes his head, and the warmth in your stomach fizzles out.</p><p>“Pierre,” you lift his head up so you can look at him, and his eyes shift everywhere but you. You hold him in place, you’re not going anywhere. Finally, he looks up, and his eyes are wet with tears. “I don’t deserve-”</p><p>“You deserve the world, darling. You were so good for me, you screamed so beautifully. You took every strike I laid on you, and I know you could’ve taken more, but look at my hand, darling.” You show him your palm. It’s red and glossy, like a burn. “I couldn’t.”</p><p>He scowls when he sees it and drags you over to the pot of salve. It hurts him to move so quickly, you hear his sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t stop until your hand is liberally coated. “You need to wear gloves,” he begins to lecture, but you place your finger against his lips.</p><p>“Thank you for taking care of me, darling,” you say. “Now hush, and let me take care of you.”</p><p>You pile your fluffiest pillows up on the bed like a nest before helping him sit on the bed. You want to help him lie down as well, but this close, you can see the tiny aborted flinches he tries not to let show on his face when you touch him, so you let him lie down on his own. There’s a story there, but he’s already so vulnerable, demanding anything more is unforgivable. “I have the salve, darling,” you move your arm in grand, sweeping motions so he knows exactly where your hands will be, even as tired as he is.</p><p>You apply the salve in light, careful motions like you know he needs, but Pierre still grunts impatiently above you. “Get on with it,” he refuses to look at you again. He hates what he considers coddling and reacts to softness like he had been scalded.</p><p>No, you’d scalded him once, and he had reacted much more calmly.</p><p>“I know you don’t need this,” you carefully avert your gaze, “but I do.” And it’s true. Your eyes are already filling with tears at the thought of how many times he must have lied alone, with no one to look after his hurts.</p><p>A hesitant hand pats your elbow, like you’re made of glass, before gesturing for you to go on. You glance up at him, and his gaze is inquisitive, not impatient. You beam at him until he returns the look.</p><p>You put as much salve as you think you can get away with. Too much and he’ll start to squirm, possibly doing more damage to himself. But you have your own rule: the games stop until the risk of infection is over. And as pigheaded as that boy is, he would sooner stab himself through the heart than disrespect you. The thought makes your pulse quicken in a thoroughly unpleasant way, and you squeeze his hand in yours to feel his pulse, kiss it to feel his warmth. He looks at you with confusion, but there must be something in your gaze that keeps him from pulling away. Instead, his eyes soften even further, and he brings his other hand up to curl against the back of your head. You let him pull you against his chest, then you settle, mindful of his injuries.</p><p>He kisses the top of your head and curls an arm around the back of your shoulders protectively. You do the same across his chest, drawing small circles with your thumb along his clavicle until you reach his neck. Then you press your warm palm, greasy with salve, around his cheek so that he turns to see you with your lips pursed for a kiss.</p><p>He leans forward obligingly, and the kiss deepens as all kisses between you two tend to do. He <em>growls</em>, and the fire in your stomach bursts back to life when you feel something poke you in the thigh.</p><p>He pulls you flush against him and your stomach strikes against his. His grunt is so different than his pleased rumbles and you freeze above him, and almost simultaneously, he stops as well. Then he’s moving again, this time biting his lip until it’s a bloodless white.</p><p>“Stop,” you press your hand against his sweaty chest. You pet it like you’re soothing a hurt animal (because you are), until he carefully puts you down beside him. You’ll never get enough of how gently he handles you. “I can keep going,” he protests.</p><p>Your yawn is genuine, if exaggerated. “No dear,” you run your fingers through his hair.</p><p>His eyes flutter shut and his entire body goes lax except for his head, which arches into your palm. Your heart breaks even as it melts. This is the only way to make him relax enough to seek the touches he craves, instead of being afraid that every hand only brings pain. But for now, he’s leaning into your body with his, the blankets are warm and the flutter in your chest even warmer than that. You’re home, you’re safe, you sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is going to be a series of semi-related oneshots, so if you have something you want me to write with Pierre, let me know. Thanks.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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